


Myths and Misses

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon deaths, Gen, Gods, Mysticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan prepared for the possibility of dying in a very reasonable way: making a blood-bargain with one of the old gods for a boon once he passed.  Just for good measure, he made one for the rest of the Amis, too.  After the barricades fall, the Amis get to see how well it worked.  Written for the Poisson d'Avril exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myths and Misses

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a treat for the lovely C-chan (1001paperboxes), for a combination of interesting things happening at the barricades and mistaken identities being misinterpreted in good old April Fool's fashion.

_Myths and Misses_

"What do you _mean_ , I can go back?"

The voice is familiar, bellowing out to fill the area where Jehan lies.

"And why in bloody hell should I have to _wait_ , if that's the case?!"

Opening his eyes, Jehan looks up at a wild night sky—a sky such as he has never seen before, even from home, and which he has _definitely_ never experienced while in Paris. Though Jehan would be the last to condemn the myriad methods of creating light which have made the night-life he and Bahorel and Grantaire and Courfeyrac thoroughly enjoy possible, it has come at the cost of the night's natural beauty. Did he write a poem about that? He imagines he must have, but it's rather difficult to remember right now.

"They're fighting _now_!"

Bahorel's next exclamation causes Jehan to open his eyes again. When had he closed them?

"What do you _mean_ , now has no meaning here?"

There is both challenge and growing horror in Bahorel's words as he speaks to someone that Jehan can't hear, and Jehan reaches up to touch his own chest, understanding dawning.

How many of the bullets struck home? Three, four, six? Eight, one for each of the dear friends he failed when he allowed himself to be captured, though he did not allow himself to share any important information with said captors?

Or only seven, because apparently one of said friends managed to beat him here? It should come as no surprise, really, though Jehan had hoped that everyone else survived the initial assault.

Sitting up, Jehan stretches muscles that feel very real despite the fact that he knows they must not be. Casting a look to the left, he sees shadows twisting and twining, too thick and dark for his eyes to ever hope to penetrate as the land slopes down.

To the right, at the crest of the hill that he is lying on, a cheery bonfire burns, sending sparks trailing up to caress the too-bright, too-close stars. Two figures stand in front of the fire. One is unmistakably Bahorel; the other...

She is a beautiful woman, her hair the same glowing red as the fire that she stands before, her eyes a bright, shimmering green that Jehan has only ever seen on cats. It is clear with even a cursory glance that she is _more_ than a woman, though.

She is the master of this land, the fire-favoring lover of poets, and that means that Jehan's mad little gamble actually _worked_.

"What mad little gamble?" Bahorel turns to face Jehan, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he does. "Is this somehow your doing, poet?"

"Well, if it's not _your_ doing, I _am_ the most likely." Dropping into a deep courtly bow to the woman, Jehan tries to keep from grinning like an idiot. "And I would be more gracious to our host if I were you. She is a very powerful goddess."

"I was, once." The woman smiles, and it is a kind expression, though a hard edge lingers beneath. "I may be again. You sang the songs and burned the poems and sealed the bargain with blood—nine times sealed and sworn. I am here to keep it."

"Right." Bahorel heaves out a breath. "Definitely not the science crew, with talk of blood bargains and burning poems."

The woman turns to Bahorel, studying him with what Jehan hopes is amusement. "I am Brigid, she of the eternal flame, healer and friend to those who weave words."

"I'm Bahorel, friend to word-weavers. It's a pleasure to meet you." Bowing himself, Bahorel takes the goddess' hand and presses a kiss to it. "And I _am_ quite grateful to you for your offer of assistance in this matter, because there's really very little _I_ can do about returning myself to life, but I still don't understand why you're insisting on _waiting_."

"Because the time is not right." Brigid shrugs, a remarkably human movement, though she follows it up by shoving one of her hands into the fire. The flames dance about her flesh like gamboling birds, leaving her untouched. "Because I would finish all the bargains at once."

Jehan tilts his head to the side. "The nine bargains that I made may take years and years to come to completion."

"They may." Brigid's eyes hold his. "The future is never fixed until it is past. But the way the flames dance says it is most likely that the others you have bartered for will be here soon, and then I shall grant you all the boon you have paid for."

"You'll send us back." Bahorel quivers next to Jehan, a bundle of barely-suppressed energy. "We'll be _alive_ again?"

"You will bear your current soul-seeming and interact with the world as the living do, from the time the sun sets until the time the sun rises." Brigid pulls her hand from the flame. "It is all that I can offer in return for what you have given."

"It is far more than I ever would have expected." Jehan bows again. "Thank you, my lady."

"Thank _you_ , poet." A smile touches the corners of Brigid's mouth. "It has been many years since someone courted me so assiduously and with such intense turns of the tongue."

Then Brigid is gone, leaving Bahorel and Jehan standing together by the bonfire, the dark of night pressing in hard around them and the heavens threatening to swallow them up into a sun-filled inferno.

Bahorel's arm lands across Jehan's shoulders, pulling Jehan close to his side. "Blood sacrifice and poetry burnings, and you didn't think to invite me?"

"I found the ceremony in that ancient Roman book I acquired. There was some digging involved in determining what the _actual_ invocations were, and everything I found stressed that the offerings were to be made alone." Jehan rests his head against Bahorel's shoulder. "Besides, _you_ didn't invite _me_ when you attempted to become a werewolf."

"You were visiting your parents! It was physically impossible for you to come!" Bahorel's whole body chuckles with the force of his laughter. "Worst of all, it proved to be a bit of farce, with no actual physical transformations occurring."

"It _is_ a shame." Jehan smiles, as well. "Can you imagine the glee on Joly and Combeferre's faces if you were to be a bonafide werewolf?"

"Grantaire would give me no end of grief; Feuilly would want to know how it happened; Bossuet would turn it into a series of puns; and Enjolras would just want to know if it gave me any special skills the revolution could use and otherwise go about his business." Bahorel gives another snorting laugh. "My mistress would have just been sorely disappointed I hadn't brought her along for the event if it worked."

"But, alas, your form remains well and truly yours." Jehan pats his dear friend on the back. "Or... well, I suppose it is more accurate now to say that it _was_ yours."

"And will be again, for the span of a night. Which is more than most can hope." Bahorel stares quietly into the fire for long, heavy seconds. "Do you truly think all of us will perish today?"

Jehan shrugs. "What will be will be. We have done all we can to change it; now we must simply play with the hand we are dealt."

Bahorel studies Jehan out of the corner of his eye. "Spoken like a man who has never heard of cheating."

Jehan gestures around them. "If _this_ does not count as cheating, then I am sorely disappointed."

They spend the time that follows talking of more innocuous topics—time during which the night does not change, the fire does not burn down.

The others come, as Brigid had predicted they would. Everyone appears calmly, buried in the plush wild grass that grows up and down the hill. There are no marks upon their souls to say how they passed, though it takes no great leaps of imagination to picture how the barricade might fall.

Grantaire and Enjolras are the last to appear, lying side by side and hand in hand. Enjolras leaps to his feet as soon as he wakes; Grantaire is slower, more hesitant, his hand touching his chest as though not certain what has happened.

Jehan moves to meet them, to explain what has happened as he has to all the others, but there isn't time.

In a flash of wind, Brigid appears above the fire, flames licking up around her body as her voice booms out. "The ones who were bartered for are here. Return from whence you came, from sunset to sunrise, and fulfill all that must be fulfilled for you to move peacefully on."

Waking up in his body is rather like waking up in Brigid's world had been: calm, peaceful, dark.

It doesn't stay that way for long, of course. There are many things that can be said about the Amis, but _calm_ and _peaceful_ are generally not descriptors that are used.

"We're among the dead!" Bossuet's voice rises an octave. "Oh, this _cannot_ be healthy."

"We're already dead." Combeferre's response sounds far too cheerful, the cadence of his words not quite right. "There is very little healthy about being dead."

"On the other hand, being dead means there's no risk of dying!"

Jehan sits up abruptly, recognizing the voice. He has heard that voice every day for the past twenty-some years. He _commands_ that voice, because it is _his_ voice, but he was not the one who spoke.

"Friends." Grantaire's voice speaks, but it is Enjolras' inflections. "I believe there has been a slight... error in our return."

The nine of them quickly gather in the center of the room, studying each other—studying _themselves_. Joly is in Bossuet's body; Bossuet is in Joly's. Bahorel and Jehan have traded residences, as have Enjolras and Grantaire. Courfeyrac is in Combeferre, Combeferre in Feuilly, and Feuilly in Courfeyrac's body.

"Well." Enjolras frowns, his usual minimalist expression looking very odd on Grantaire's face. "I suppose it's no more of a hindrance to doing what we must than being deceased."

"That depends on what you mean by must!" Joly rubs at his nose, stopping mid-motion to flail his hands. "Musichetta was already going to kill us for both ending up dead! When we show up in the wrong bodies—"

"Oh, I don't know." Bossuet puts an arm around Joly's waist, leaning against his old body. "I think we can diffuse the situation. We'll just explain that there's been a slight case of _miss-taken_ identities."

A collective groan of approval rises up from the gathered Amis, and a torrent of related puns bursts forth.

Enjolras puts a halt to the entertainment after two minutes, raising his hand with a smile and immediately being given everyone's attention. "While I appreciate the enthusiasm and intelligence on display, the night is, unfortunately, short. Let us divvy up our tasks and be about them."

It takes less than ten minutes to determine what they can do to best assist any surviving revolutionaries and cells; it takes five hours for Bahorel and Jehan to complete their portion of the work.

"That should leave us about two hours until sunrise." Bahorel grins at Jehan, showing far more teeth than Jehan thinks _he_ ever did with the pose. "Shall we go have a bit of adventure?"

Jehan lifts one eyebrow. "I would suggest a séance, but we may end up stealing our own souls."

"And starting a brawl in a body you're not terribly familiar with is probably a poor decision." Bahorel flexes the fingers of both hands. "But there are still many other enterprises we could try. While _you_ were collecting the books of old gods, _I_ have been collecting literature of a different sort... what say you to attempting transformation again?"

"I say why not?" Jehan follows his friend, intending to make use of every extra moment they have been gifted with.

There will be questions, he's sure, when their bodies are found far from where they should be.

Hopefully those who go looking for answers will understand the wonders that they come across, and the terrible glory that is only half-lived lives freely gifted for the future and hope held fast in both hands.


End file.
